CHAPTER FOUR — THE WREN
The Wren Theater stood between a shuttered department store and a narrow church whose bell tower rose above the elevated tracks.
Its entrance had once been decorated with brass birds that spread their wings over the doors.
Only two birds remained, and one was missing its head.
Claire led Nora through a service entrance instead of the main lobby.
A smell of sawdust and old velvet drifted from the corridor.
Workers in black shirts carried equipment cases past framed photographs of performers.
At the far end of the hall, a teenage boy practiced a cello passage that sounded troubled and beautiful.
He stopped when Claire appeared.
“Are we still rehearsing tomorrow?” he asked.
“For now,” she said.
Nora noticed that the boy looked frightened rather than excited.
They entered the auditorium beneath a ceiling painted with clouds.
A giant white screen occupied the stage.
Beyond it, metal towers supported cameras and rows of lights.
The velvet seats had been covered in protective plastic.
Claire pointed to a narrow booth high above the rear balcony.
“My mother used to sit there during rehearsals because she liked hearing the room without microphones.”
Nora followed her gaze.
“Who is producing tomorrow’s show?”
“A division called Whitmore Eternal.”
“Who runs it?”
“My cousin, Martin Vale, with a technical director named Gideon Price.”
“And you?”
“I signed the budget.”
The admission hung between them.
Claire took her toward the stage.
A woman wearing a headset approached, holding a clipboard against her chest.
“Claire, the replacement facial model isn’t approved yet,” she said.
“Gideon says he can fix the eyes before morning.”
“This is Nora Bennett,” Claire answered.
“She’s here at Father’s request.”
The woman looked startled.
“I’m Lena Ortiz, stage manager.”
Nora shook her hand.
Lena’s fingers had dried glue on them, and her expression suggested she had spent the entire night settling arguments.
“Can I ask you something?” Nora said.
“Does anyone working here believe the woman on that screen is actually Marion Whitmore?”
Lena glanced toward the empty auditorium.
“Some do,” she said.
“Some don’t know enough to ask.”
A man descended a temporary staircase, carrying a tablet.
He wore an expensive black sweater and looked as if he had not slept.
“Claire,” he called.
“We have a problem with the rehearsal rights.”
He stopped when he saw Nora.
“Who is she?”
“A guest of my father’s,” Claire said.
“This is Gideon Price.”
Gideon gave Nora a brief, dismissive nod.
“We can’t keep admitting visitors while we’re calibrating the projection.”
Nora opened the leather case.
She lifted the photograph and showed it to him.
“Did Marion know you planned to make her sing songs she never sang?”
Gideon stared at the picture.
“The estate approved the use of her likeness.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He turned back to Claire.
“We have an eleven-hour countdown, and Martin wants proof the sequence works.”
Claire ordered the stage lights dimmed.
A melody began over the speakers.
The screen brightened, revealing a life-sized figure in a pale green gown.
The projected woman smiled at an empty theater.
She began singing about her husband’s faithful hands and the company’s promise to preserve love forever.
Nora watched Claire stiffen.
When the final phrase ended, applause sounded from hidden speakers.
Nora looked around the deserted seats.
“Who is clapping?” she asked.
Lena answered quietly.
“They added it to make the room feel full.”
Nora shut the leather case with a sharp click.
“Then you’ve already decided what the audience is supposed to feel.”
